Ilka on the Hill-Top and Other Stories eBook

“Well,” he answered, evasively, “I
should hardly say that. It is rather your detestable
democratic cookery which has undone me. I haven’t
had a decent meal since I set my foot on this accursed
continent. There is an all-pervading plebeian
odor of republicanism about everything one eats here,
which is enough to ruin the healthiest appetite, and
a certain barbaric uniformity in the bill of fare which
would throw even a Diogenes into despair. May
the devil take your leathery beef-steaks, as tough
as the prose of Tacitus, your tasteless, nondescript
buckwheats, and your heavy, melancholy wines, and
I swear it would be the last you would hear of him!”

“There! that will do, Dannevig!” I cried,
laughing. “You have said more than enough
to convince me of your identity. I do admit I
was sceptical as to whether this could really be you,
but you have dispelled my last doubts. It was
my intention to invite you to dine with me to-day
but you have quite discouraged me. I live quite
en garcon, you know, and have no Chateau Yquem
nor pheasant a la Sainte Alliance, and whatever
else your halcyon days at the Cafe Anglais may have
accustomed you to.”

“Never mind that. Your company will in
part reconcile me to the republicanism of your table.
And, to put the thing bluntly, can you lend me thirty
dollars? I have pawned my only respectable suit
of clothes for that amount, and in my present costume
I feel inexpressibly plebeian,—­very much
as if I were my own butler, and—­what is
worse—­I treat myself accordingly. I
never knew until now how much of the inherent dignity
of a man can be divested with his clothing. Then
another thing: I am absolutely forced to do something,
and, judging by your looks, I should say that journalism
was a profitable business. Now, could you not
get me some appointment or other in connection with
your paper? If, for instance, you want a Paris
correspondent, then I am just your man. I know
Paris by heart, and I have hobnobbed with every distinguished
man in France.”

“But we could hardly afford to pay you enough
to justify you in taking the journey on our account.”

“O sancta simplicitas! No, my boy,
I have no such intention. I can make up the whole
thing with perfect plausibility, here under your own
roof; and by little study of the foreign telegrams,
I would undertake to convince Thiers and Jules Favre
themselves that I watched the play of their features
from my private box at the French opera, night before
last, that I had my eye at the key-hole while they
performed their morning ablutions, and was present
as eavesdropper at their most secret councils.
Whatever I may be, I hope you don’t take me
to be a chicken.”

“No,” I answered, beguiled into a lighter
mood by his own levity. “It might be well
for you if you were more of one. But as Paris
correspondent, we could never engage you, at least
not on the terms you propose. But even if I should
succeed in getting a place for you, do you know English
enough to write with ease?”